


England's Most Wanted

by shinkonokokoro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Wrong-side-of-the-law!Sherlock, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is England's Most Wanted. DI Moriarty has been chasing him for a while now, but with no evidence? No arrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um, suspend a little disbelief, I guess, with some of the goings-on. I tried to make everything as consistent as possible, within the Sherlock 'verse. :) So enjoy!

"Drat!" A voice exclaimed as soon as he was conscious. "I was afraid of that," it continued mournfully, then sighed. He tried to turn, but was firmly tethered to a chair in some kind of basement.

The striking young man who had so effeminately collapsed in the lobby of the hospital circled a round in front of him. "John Watson. Military Doctor."

"Yes. What of it? I assume this isn't a how d'you do..." he said flatly.

The man's eyes widened. "Ooh... I've _really_ got the wrong hostage."

John only sighed.

"You are _fascinating_!" the man crowed. "A doctor—but you _miss_ the war!"

"Hold on now!" John said heatedly, irritation spiking.

"You do! You miss the focus it gave you, the rush of danger! London is killing you, John Watson. Stifling. Smothering. You developed a limp to seem more interesting!"

"You don't know anything about me!"

"John Watson, 34, surgeon until you volunteered for the armed forces, served in Afghanistan as a medic on the front lines, taking over more dangerous surgeries, calm in the face of danger. You are one in a million. Returned after being shot, got your old job back regardless. You miss your gun, go to shooting practise regularly. You liked killing the enemy. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not. Who the hell are you?"

The man grinned. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure. I'd shake hands, but yours are tied."

John frowned, his eyes shooting wide. "You're—those murders! The police—"

"Yes! The very same!" He chortled. "Now, I've business with a man trying to edge in on my territory—being, England. And I need him dead. Would you like to help me?"

John gaped. "You can't just—you don't—what makes you think I would do that! I'm a doctor!"

"Doctor to the innocent. Don't tell me you're not excited. I can see it. Eyes widened, breath faster, pupils dilated. All a bit like arousal." Continuing over his sputtering, "Speaking of which, any muscle pain, headache, nausea, disorientation?"

"What? Um. No. Not really." Momentarily side-tracked.

"Excellent. My drug worked. Unconsciousness for precisely an hour and a half, and no side-effects!" He looked inordinately pleased. "Oh come on. Don't be boring. Help me get rid of a bad guy."

"You're a 'bad guy.'"

Sherlock laughed. "Oh I like you. Come with me. He's poisoning people and blaming me. Can't have that. Must send a message. I'll even give you a gun. Be my sniper, John."

He stared at him. "You're mad."

"Hardly. Just brilliant and bored. You'll have a choice. Kill me or kill him. I'll arrange us in front of a window. I'll be an easy shot—you're a good shot, John. Kill me or kill him. If you kill me, report it to Detective Moriarty. He'll love you. What do you say?"

"I haven't a clue," John murmured in a daze.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a Browning. "She'll be all yours...!"

"It's my choice?"

Leaning forward with an intense stare, Sherlock licked his lips. "Absolutely."

"Untie me?"

The man's smile nearly split his face.

* * *

Bursting into the room with the dead body, John rounded on Sherlock. "Why did you take the pill? It's poison! They're both poison!"

"Of course."

John gaped. "You utter idiot! You'll die! Throw it up!"

Sherlock grinned. "Nonsense. He always took the antidote first."

"Yes maybe, but _you_ didn't!"

"Why John... One would almost think you cared... That must be what was in his flask then." He held up a small silver object. "Good thing I swapped them out earlier, hm?"

Once again, his jaw fell open, and he surprised them both by dissolving into giggles.

"Oh yes, John Watson. We're going to have _such_ fun."

* * *

So in a flurry of decisions that he never made, John found his nights full of Sherlock bloody Holmes, mastermind terrorising England. Sherlock turned up at the hospital all the time, always in disguise. Old men, gay men, military men, wounded men. The last was guaranteed to get him in to see John. Once he got over the shock of seeing him bloodied and bruised, with blood that wasn't his and make-up, John chastised him for it.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Want to help me get rid of a rapist tonight?"

John sighed. "You're taking up time that I could use to help others who, you know, actually need it."

"Serial rapist. From across the pond. I don't like him."

"So we're going to kill him," John returned to sterilising his instruments.

"I'll give you your Browning back."

"It's officially mine now?"  
"I'm never going to use it," Sherlock said, mouth twisted in distaste.

"Your 'missions' sound suspiciously like vigilantism. Especially when you invite me along," he accused.

Sherlock grinned, the effect rather disconcerting with the blood dripping down his face. "I'll pick you up at ten." And hopped off the table.

"Wait!" John hissed. "You can't _leave_ looking like that!"

Sherlock paused, saw his reflection in the reflective surface of the paper towels and then snickered. "Patch me up, good Doctor." He yelped as John shoved him down into a sitting position. "Doctor...!" Sherlock crooned.

"Stop it," he said lowly and then wiped the blood of Sherlock's face gently. "Jesus! This is real?"

"Don't worry," he said cheerily. "It's clean."

John blanched.

"Don't tell me you're suddenly squeamish..."

"This is someone else's blood! It's—"

"Pig's blood, John. Jesus. Don't be boring."

John snorted. "Excuse my attempts to be _normal—_ "

"Boring."

"And! Sanitary!" John snapped at him and then shoved the cloth in his face.

Sherlock only laughed and swiped the cloth over his face. "There. Does that appease your social obligations as a doctor?"

He scowled and crossed his arms. "Get out."

"See you a ten, darling," and flounced out just as Sarah was entering.

"Darling? John? Who was that?"

"No one. Some strange patient."

"Really. Because he sounded like a man talking to his date. Do you have a date?"

"I don't think I'm the kind of doctor he needs," he said flatly. "Do you need something?"

"Oh relax. I just wanted to invite you to the staff party in three weeks."

"Saturday?"

'Yes. 8:00."

"Sure."

Sarah smiled. "Great! Bring your friend if you like."

He smiled, forced, and shook his head. "Just me. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just your lovely self! Though if you'd like to bring some nibbles, I'm sure they wouldn't be turned away."

"Right. I'll be there."

"Brilliant!" And then she waved and sailed out.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on his door a quarter to ten, breezing into John's tiny military-clean flat he paid too much to. He curled his lip up in distaste. "No wonder you're unhappy. Come on then."

"I don't think I—"

"He's an enemy," Sherlock said coldly. "The Yard will never be able to catch him. Most of his crimes were committed on American soil."

"Your enemy," John protested, but didn't say 'no.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on. You've already decided you're coming. Don't be predictable and boring. Grab your jacket. It's a tad nippy." Holding the Browning out on a long finger, Sherlock grinned. "Well?"

John threw his coat over his shoulders and grabbed the gun from Sherlock, pointing it at him immediately.

If anything, the man's grin widened. "I love it when you surprise me, John. Unfortunately, we don't have the time for this as we've a specific time frame in which to act."

He scowled, slipped the gun into the back of his trousers beneath the jacket. "I want early to bed tonight, Sherlock. SO you had better be correct and get this done quickly."

They didn't.

After chasing the man from a nightclub full of uni kids, following him across town, through disreputable alleys, a drugs den, and through someone's flat, John crashed onto Sherlock's sofa, face first at 3:45 A.M.

"You really should just move in..." Sherlock said airily, draped over a chair, impossibly graceful.

John snorted.

"Why not? It will be more convenient for when I need you, you hate your flat, this is closer to your surgery, safer neighbourhood, and rent is cheaper."

"I don't hate my flat."

"Yes you do," Sherlock said confidently.

"And what makes you thi—"

"You haven't decorated. There's nothing personal. You live there like it's a temporary space. A hotel room. Your luggage was in plain sight. You don't _live_ there, John. It's not _home_."

"So! As if living with a criminal mastermind would be any better. I'd get arrested if you were!"

"That's why I don't get arrested," he said smugly. "Make some tea?"

John was on his feet before he slowed and flopped back down. "Your flat. Make your own bleeding tea."

"You do it so much better."

"How do you know?"

"Who do you think drank your tea today?"

John gaped at him. "You snooped my desk!"

Blinking lazily, Sherlock arched a brow. "Your fault for such an unimaginative password. 170411Watson. Really, John?"

He flushed. "No one knows the day I got shot," he said lowly.

"Oops. Spilled my secret. So are you moving in? I'll help you move."

"As 'generous' as that offer is, I really think I'll have to pass," John drawled.

Sherlock rolled off the chair and sauntered into the kitchen. "You like yours with one sugar and a teaspoon of milk, yes?"

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that. And how do you even know all this? I know nothing about you," John called.

"It's not hard to find information on people if you know where to look. And it isn't hard to figure a person out if you merely observe."

"Places you're not supposed to be able to look?"

Sherlock re-entered the room with two mugs. "Perhaps."

"Sorry. I can't."

"You won't be arrested. I promise. You'll never be connected to me. Or. You will never be implicated. I could use a man like you at my back."

John paused. "You mean that."

"Of course I do," the other scoffed.

"And you can guarantee—"

"Unless we're caught together, red-handed, I can guarantee your innocence. And at the very least dispel certainty so they'll never have any clear motive or evidence to put you away. I give you my word. Now, if you're finished with your ridiculous insecurities, could you kindly move in so I can cease this demeaning pleading?" He glared, eyes glinting.

"Let me think about it," John said slowly.

"Excellent!" He whipped out his mobile. "Lestrade. Tomorrow you're helping me move a friend into my flat. Bring your car."

"Sher—wait! I didn't say yes!"

"Yes, a friend! You wound me... I'll see you at around 11 tomorrow." He rung off and looked smugly at John.

"I never _agreed_ , Sherlock! My lease isn't up!"

Sherlock waved it away. "Don't worry. I can get your return back. Stop worrying. It's becoming tedious."

"I'm going to regret this."

"So you're going to move in."

John groaned.

"Excellent."

Reaching for the tea, his hand brushed a telly remote. Only he couldn't see it's corresponding part. Sherlock had vanished into the kitchen again, so he aimed it around the room pressing the power button.

"Batteries are dead."

He sighed and rolled into the back of the sofa, shutting his eyes, knowing he'd be sore the next day.

* * *

Which found him woken by all sorts of racket and commotion. He blinked to clear his eyes, staring dumbly as men paraded past with boxes. "Wha—" He broke off, cleared his throat, and tried again. "What's going on?"

One of the scruffy, burly men looked over him before grunting. "Moving stuff for Mr. Holmes."

"Uh-huh." He winced as he got off the sofa, stretching with a groan. "My things, I'm sure."

"Of course, John. To the room upstairs," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway. "Careful, Greg. I'm sure John does want his things in the condition in which he left them."

The greying man puffed behind him through the door carrying a large box.

"Do you need help?" John rasped politely.

"No...this...the last..." And clomped up the stairs.

John turned to glare fully at Sherlock. "I never said for sure."

"Of course you did, John. Now that this is your flat as well, make tea. The boys will be gone in a few and then you'll have all the time you need to unpack."

"Who are they exactly?"

Sherlock shrugged, hanging his coat and disappearing into his bedroom.

"Sherlock!"

"Martin Fore, a sometimes useful retriever of information. Joel Lenke, one of my friends at the Telegraph. Carson Benito, acquires objects and tools. And finally, the good Greg Lestrade, junior detective at Scotland Yard."

"You've got the _Yard_ working for you!"

Greg walked by with a grunt and disgruntled glance at Sherlock.

Who grinned.

John sighed.

"Begone! The lot of you! John! Tea!"

He jerked and took two steps towards the kitchen before turning to glare at Sherlock who had flopped himself on the sofa.

Sherlock chortled. "I love military types!"

"See ya, boss!" one of the guys said on his way out.

John continued to the kitchen because _he_ wanted tea. Everything was relatively easy to find. Amongst the various poisons, body parts, and other curiosities in the cabinets. He thunked the mug (scrubbed) in front of Sherlock. "If you want me to live here, I'm not having anything mouldy in the fridge or cabinets."

"Demands already?" the other man drawled.

"Not unreasonable!" John said sharply.

Sherlock only hummed and took a sip of the tea. "No biscuits?"

"Get your own bloody biscuits!" And stomped up to his new bedroom to unpack.

* * *

There was a calm week for John while he unpacked. Sherlock flitted in and out of the flat. Conducting 'business' presumably. He jumped when Sherlock poked his head in. "John."

"Jesus! Don't _do_ that!" John set down the picture frame.

"Sister? Ah. Alcoholic. How incredibly frustrating addictions are if you don't control them..."

"Wha—Sherlock. The very _nature_ of an addiction is that you cannot control it. What did you want?"

"I need you to be my alibi."

"I'm sorry. What?"

He scoffed. "Don't make me repeat myself. My alibi. You're it."

"Today?"

"No. Last night. In case you're asked, we had dinner last night at Angelo's, table in front of the window. You had crab. I had water."

John rolled his eyes.

"Perfect." And vanished.

"I could _not_ help you, you know!" John shouted.

Sherlock's head returned along with most of his torso. "You could," he said seriously. "But you wouldn't."

"Oh? And why's that?"

Sherlock smiled brightly. "I'm exciting."

He snorted. "You flatter yourself."

"Au contraire, John. _You_ flatter me. Care to watch my back tonight? Bring the Browning. The Browning is good, isn't it? Or would you like something else? I can get it for you."

Sighing, John shook his head. "The Browning's fine. But if you want to make it up to me, get me a Sig and make sure I'm not arrested."

"I already promised the latter," he sniffed.

"Yes. Just make sure."

"Tonight. South London, drug dealer. Thinks he can avoid giving me my share. I need to teach a lesson," he said coolly.

"Alright then. I'll have time to do some shopping beforehand, yes?"

"Yes John. Here. Get some steak. We can celebrate tomorrow."

"Celebrate what?"

"Your official moving in and being my ace in the hole, so to speak!"

* * *

They didn't celebrate tomorrow. The drug dealer was a snitch for the Yard, leaving John and Sherlock no choice but to keep their heads down and take off through the back alleys and small roads of London. Sherlock cackled in glee as it began to rain, covering their tracks. He'd thrust his scarf at John to cover his face and then disappeared down an alley. John frowned, searched in circles for a while before giving up, stopping for hot tea before taking a taxi home. To Baker Street. It wasn't home.

He glowered at the squelching noise his trainers made as he climbed the stairs to their flat. He'd barely hidden the gun before the door was being knocked on by London's finest.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The young man in a suit asked.

"Um. No?"

He rolled his eyes. "No. I mean is he here."

John shrugged. "No idea. Just got in. Who are you?"

"Detective Inspector Moriarty." He held out a hand. "A pleasure."

John didn't take it. "So what did you need with him?"

Moriarty smiled. "We needed to ask him a few questions. How long have you lived with Mr. Holmes?"

"Less than a day."

The DI's brows flew up. "Oh really! And where did you say you were?"

John smiled dumbly. "I didn't."

Moriarty smiled again. 'Where were you?"

"Checking my alibi or something? What is this? I was out getting tea." He bristled. "I thought you had questions for my flat-mate. And since he's not her, and I'm soaked, could you kindly leave?"

Moriarty fished into his manteau for a card. "Give me a ring when you've seen him. Good night."

"Oh, of course," John lied cheerily. He shut the door and sighed, kicking off his shoes. A quick shower warmed him sufficiently, but he made tea anyway. Uncovered the telly and replaced the batteries in time to catch reruns of Curb Your Enthusiasm. He eventually got tired of waiting for Sherlock to return, since he apparently wasn't in, and went to bed.

* * *

Sherlock didn't return for another day and a half, promptly vanishing into his bedroom. A few minutes later: "Did you let him in?"

John might have laughed at him, eyes wide, chest heaving, hanging onto the door-frame.

"Don't pretend to be an idiot, John; it doesn't look good on you. Well. It _does_ look good on you. When you're doing it for me. Did he enter the flat."

"If you're talking about DI Moriarty, then no. I did _not_ invite him in. I was _soaked_ , because you left me _behind_."

"Tsk. You knew the way home. You're good with directions and in the dark. You hardly stumbled once with me, and you didn't know where you were going."

"Yes, thank you," John drawled. "I'm very flattered. Now kindly do not leave me behind again."

Sherlock's eyes widened at his tone before crinkling with glee. "I see."

John frowned. "I'm not sure you do though, Sherlock. If you want me running around with you, then you won't be leaving me behind. Or I might suddenly develop. Poor aim."

Sherlock bounded over, grinning wider. He grabbed John's face and planted a kiss before spinning away. "Oh you've made yourself crystal clear, John. Absolutely."

"Um." He blinked. "Is that going to be standard procedure as well?" He called after the man as he disappeared into his bedroom.

"What? No. Spirit of celebration!" Sherlock's head appeared in the doorway briefly.

"What?"

Sherlock flew through to the kitchen. "What did I say about playing the idiot, John Watson." He wore a large grin when he shuffled into the room with a bottle of champaign and two flutes.

"Oh. Finally." John flopped down on the sofa. Two and a half mysteriously empty bottles later, he fumbled up from the sofa with a plea of 'loo.' Upon his return, Sherlock was cradle bridle style in one of the chairs, head flopped back to stare at the sofa. "I must be mad."

"Oh?" Sherlock's eyes focused in on him.

"I'm living with a man who kidnapped me. A man who has the entire crime scene at his beck and call. That's mad, right?" he slurred, dropping onto the sofa again. "Right?"

"Not for you," Sherlock rumbled.

John snorted, ending in a giggle. "Well I can't ask you, _you're_ mad. You own London and get excite when people threaten to shoot you."

"Only you, John." His smile looked so devilish upside down.

"Why d'you live _here_ anyway?"

"What's wrong with 'here?'"

"Couldn't you...I dunno. Afford some place... nicer?"

"It's nice enough. Holds everything I need and doesn't attract attention. I'm saving up to buy an island."

John snorted again. "Right, mate."

Sherlock grinned, levering himself upright.

"Wait, could you _afford_ an island? Sherlock? You— _oof_!" He grunted as the man flopped onto his lap. "That's really not comfortable."

"For me it is."

"Of course it is. You're in the lap of a cushy war veteran."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure, John Watson, that you could kill me in more ways than I could deduce."

"Is that a compliment? It sounds like you like it like that."

Kissing him soundly again, Sherlock slithered out of his lap. "More champaign."

"No, no. I'm soused. No more." He dropped his head back on the sofa.

"Alright," he said from the kitchen. "Tea?"

"If you're offering."

"Sex?"

"Beg your pardon?" John asked in a higher octave than he intended.

"That a 'no' then?" Sherlock poked his head out, frowned, looked John over. "Guess not then."

"Wha—"

"Violin?"

"What?"

"D you object? Helps me plan."

"Plan? Sorry, I—"

"Yes, crime." The kettle sang. A moment later he returned with a mug for John and then settled himself in the chair with his violin. "This I bought."

"I didn't say anything," John mumbled around the rim.

"You were thinking it. An instrument like this... one must buy. Stolen money," Sherlock grinned as he began to tune, "But I bought the violin."

"Hn."

"Go to sleep, John. Finish your tea and get some sleep."

Seeming like a wise plan of action, he pulled himself up off the sofa to shuffle upstairs. "Good night, Sherlock," he called as the strains of something soft and almost tender eased from the violin.


	2. Chapter 2

Their next adventure involved a burning building. Not at first, of course, but half-way? Yes. John got out first and immediately blended with the rescue workers, snapping that he was a doctor—let him help. Keeping his eyes peeled for Sherlock, he worked furiously. John hurried between people, thankful none of the unconscious men were Sherlock. Shit, where was he?"

"Excuse me! Someone help me, please?" A tall figure wobbled out of the smoke, covered in ash and debris. He looked panicked and lost, blood streaming down the side of his face. Voice weak and breathy, he looked around frantically while he called for help again.

John hurried over, looked up into blue-grey eyes, and laughed.

Sherlock cried, "My saviour," and then fainted into John's arms.

He grunted under his full weight, cursing. Shifting, he hefted Sherlock up, scooping an arm under his legs. The man's head lolled against his shoulder. "Shit. Move! Get out of the way!" He snapped at the idiots milling around. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you conscious?"

"Just get somewhere out of sight, John," his voice reverberated against John's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Too long since his last shag.

"Shit, you miserable fuck. Why would you do that to me..." But he ducked down an alley away from the chaos and dropped Sherlock.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock dusted himself off, carding fingers through his hair and brushing ash off his face with a handkerchief pulled from somewhere. "I figured you'd be able to tell. You're from the medical profession—trauma surgeon! Surely you can tell a man unconscious from one faking..."

Feeling flush, John dropped his gaze. "You're very good..."

"Dear John. I'm flattered. I didn't know you'd cared."

He sighed. "Was everything taken care of?"

"Oh yes. All records were burned up in the fire. And my snitch was regrettably killed in this tragic accident."

"Sherlock... There were other people in that building."

"Of course. It would have been suspicious if it were otherwise."

"And they might have been hurt."

"The structure was solid. Now they'll have an interesting story to tell for the next year." He strode towards the back of the alley and jumped to pull down a fire-escape. "Come along, John. I'll even give you a boost."

John glared at him, but trudged over. "I can jump."

"Of course. And no, there were no traces of me left behind. And no traces the fire wasn't natural. Candles are highly dangerous, you know. Jump."

Sherlock's hands at his waist, John muscled his way up the ladder until he could get his feet up to help him.

"Excellent, John. Very impressive upper body strength." Sherlock jumped and grabbed the second rung, levering his feet up to get himself into a sitting position on the rung. "Alright then. Third floor, John. There's an empty apartment."

Grumbling, John climbed up and across a ledge into a third storey window that Sherlock jimmied open. Then down to the street where they hailed a taxi, Sherlock once again slouching into a sloppy posture, lips pursed and hips cocked. Gay.

And then settled in John's lap, pinning him with a kiss.

Once behind the safety of the closed door of 221B, John exploded. "What the bloody hell was that?"

"Beg your pardon?" Sherlock hung his coat, back to John.

"Don't play at stupid, Sherlock! It doesn't suit you!" he mocked.

"It prevented our faces from being seen properly. He wasn't going to look at us because we made him uncomfortable."

"We made _me_ uncomfortable!"

Sherlock tsked. "You're uncomfortable because of the dreams you've had since I mentioned sex, John. You're uncomfortable because you're curious, and I'm different."

"You're a madman!"

"I'm right," Sherlock said, taking a step towards him.

"I must be insane for agreeing to live with you, I _must_!" John threw his hands up.

"Did you want to have sex?"

" _No_!"

"I'm off to have a shower, then. Get the tea started, would you?" Sherlock headed towards his room.

With an inarticulate scream, John flung a pillow after him.

"Have a wank, John. It'll take the edge off your rage," Sherlock called from his room.

"Make your own bloody tea!" And he stomped upstairs.

* * *

Somehow having managed to fall asleep, John woke early and went down to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, vacantly hoping it went off and woke Sherlock while he grabbed the newspaper. Miserable sod.

The apartment/office complex fire made the news, along with a quote from Moriarty alluding to Sherlock's potential culpability. But no proof meant no arrest. At least Sherlock paid his taxes.

"Tea for two?" the man in question said, making John jump.

"Jesus! Don't do that!"

"You don't work for five hours. Couldn't sleep?"

"No." he groused.

Sherlock grinned.  
"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

John put down the newspaper. "You're a terror."

"Oh you're not _still_ sore, are you? Boring!" And whisked the kettle off as it started to wail. "Let's go out for breakfast. I'm paying."

"And by 'paying' you mean going somewhere where someone owes you money so you don't _have_ to pay?"

"Precisely. You coming?"

"Let a man get clothes on. I really should have a shower..."

Sherlock waved him away. "Take your time."

John blinked. "Thanks..." So John showered and came back down, Sherlock draped over a chair so his head was brushing the floor. "Right." John ignored him in favour of getting his shoes and coat. Because what else was he supposed to do? "Are you ready?"

"I shall be in approximately two minutes."

John rolled his eyes, but a minute and about forty-five seconds later, he was turning the key in the lock and following Sherlock down the stairs to the street. "So... Where are we going?"

"It depends."

"Upon what?" John prompted.

Looking at him, Sherlock grinned. "On whether or not you'd like to lose the plain clothes officer tailing us."

He tsked. "Moriarty really should find some better people."

"Beggars cannot be choosers when working with the public police force. Fortunately."

Shrugging, John shoved his hands into his pockets. "Let him follow. He can get hungry watching us eat a tasty breakfast."

Sherlock grinned. "'A Spot of Delight' it is then." And stepped faster.

They were served quickly, and served well. The table had a nice view of the river, as nice as the Thames _could_ be. It also put Sherlock's back to a wall, kindly affording another for John. Well-lit and clean, the food was perfect. "Anyone staring us down?" John asked, wiping his mouth.

"No, he's gone." Sherlock's eyes flit around, taking everything in.

John nodded, looking up at the man in uniform, paused beside the table.

"Oh he's fine, Bernard," Sherlock said.

With a smile that contained considerably less teeth John would have thought acceptable for this type of establishment, Bernard pulled a slip out of his apron and handed it to Sherlock. "Boss. Sir." The last and a nod was to John.

"Bernard likes you," Sherlock said, pleased.

"How can you tell?"

"You can't?" Sherlock tucked the note into his inside breast pocket.

Huffing, John stood. "We don't all possess your powers of observation."

"He made only three threats and called you 'sir.'"

"When did he make threats?"

Sherlock merely looked at him.

Sighing, John pressed fingers to his temple. "What was that all about?"

Sherlock hummed, squinting around the restaurant. "Time to see a man about explosives." Laughed. "Don't look so alarmed, John. No one's going to be in harm's way. If they do what I want."

"Somehow that fails to reassure."

Guiding him out, Sherlock scoffed. "They should listen. However," he said lightly with a toss of his head, "I'm not adverse to less...merciful results."

"You're frightening." John watched Sherlock preen out of his peripheral as they ducked down yet another alley, following a twisted route John, even with his handle for directions, couldn't remember.

* * *

Once again, John Watson wondered at his life. He sighed. "For the third time, Detective. I have not seen Mr. Holmes in as many days."

Moriarty smiled thinly. "I just wish to be thorough, Mr. Watson. You know how inaccurate the human memory can be? I'm sure you hardly remember what you had for breakfast yesterday."

John smiled. "Toast with raspberry jam."

"Then you're more fortunate than most," the DI said with a conciliatory nod. "I should have expected no less from a colleague of Mr. Holmes."

"Colleague, Moriarty?" Sherlock scoffed from behind the man. "Hardly a fitting term for a flat-mate. Now leave us in peace. Law and Order is on shortly, and I need to have a shower."

"Why hello Sherlock dear."

"Be gone, Moriarty," Sherlock sniffed, tapping a foot on the stair. "I was nowhere near your crime. Now let me take in my shopping."

"Where have you been the past 3 days?" Moriarty smoothed his hands over his fine jacket, pointedly not moving.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sighed. "I've been here. John just has not seen me because he's been at work when I'm home, and a friend has been in town, so I've not seen been home until late. And I've been very quiet so as not to wake John, because he's a good flat-mate. And I didn't wish him to leave. Now if you're finished being tedious, perhaps I could get into my flat."

John moved away from the door to go turn on the telly.

He heard Moriarty say, "Friends? I thought I'd arrested all of those."

"Shut your mouth," Sherlock rumbled.

"He _still_ doesn't know? Tsk, tsk. Wouldn't want to live with you then, Sherlock? If he knew your nocturnal activities?"

"You're boring. Leave."

John snickered as he heard Sherlock rustle past Moriarty. "Law and Order is starting."

"Farewell then, Sherlock, Johnny!"

"Finally," Sherlock growled, slamming the door, and stomping past John to drop the sacks in the kitchen.

"So where were eyou?"

"Popped up to Scotland to see an associate." Sherlock dropped his coat over the back of a chair and then collapsed next to John on the sofa. "Dull. The neighbour will be accused, but the sister did it."

"Dammit, Sherlock!"

"Come on then. Let's have sex instead."

Sputtering, John turned to gape. "What _is_ it with you?"

"I fancy a shag."

His face heat. "Sorry. I don't underst—"

"You're the first person to keep up—well that's hardly accurate, but you keep up, so to speak, in important ways. I can trust you to guard my back. I value your company and assistance. You possess a certain charm. I find all of this attractive." Sherlock shrugged artlessly. "You have been with a man before..."

"How—what—do you—what makes you think that!"

"Your dildo. And the fact that we've passed homosexual couples on the street, and they garner no more of your attention than heterosexual couples do. You also pay attention to conventionally attractive men the way you do attractive women. Only about 3/8 of the time, however. You mostly look at women if you want to hear that. John?"

"...you have influence in Scotland?"

Sherlock sighed and sank back into the cushions. "Sex between us could be quite fulfilling."

John stared, unseeing, at the telly, swallowing and wetting his dry lips.

"I am a quite ardent lover."

"Jesus," he swore lowly. "You...!"

"Changing your mind?"

"I'm going to shower. Enjoy your telly programme you already know how it ends. Already know the ending. _Whatever_."

"Have a nice wank."

He stomped up the stairs and then as the cool water eased his temper, it did nothing for his embarrassment as he realised he maybe was imagining it was Sherlock's hand instead of his own around his prick.

* * *

"There are some of those lemon biscuits you like in the kitchen," Sherlock said draped across the sofa.

"Stand up. No. Sit. Just sit," John ordered.

Sherlock looked at him, eyebrow raised. After a moment, he did as asked.

"I'm not saying... This is just..." John took a deep breath and then pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. Stepped back. "Okay. Okay."

Sherlock smirked. "Okay?"

"Smug and it never happens." John glared.

Sobriety swept over Sherlock's face like a mask. "Now?"

"God yes." The sudden possibility of it swept through him wildly.

Sherlock stood and turned them, pushing him down with an indulgent smile then bending to kiss him. He licked into John's mouth slowly, biting down on his lip.

John groaned. It'd been too long... He parted his lips, and Sherlock took advantage, his tongue sweeping along the curve of John's teeth, the arch of his palate. He pushed his tongue up between John's teeth and lip, a shudder ripping down his spine. When Sherlock stood again, John had to catch his breath.

"Sofa, John? Or shall we adjourn to—"

"Sofa," he whispered, leaning back and giving Sherlock a hooded glance.

Sherlock smiled as John's legs fell open, cheeks pinked charmingly. "Perfect." He knelt between John's thighs and pushed his hands up under John's jumper, rucking it up to his armpits.

"Oh goodness..." John huffed, squirming his hips down.

But Sherlock teased the skin above his waistband, thumping over his nipples, scratching in the hollows between his ribs until John gasped and dug his fingers into Sherlock's hair. Bending, Sherlock kept John's gaze as he dipped his tongue into John's naval.

"Alright! Alright! You've proven you're good at this," John said in a voice that was needier than he would have liked.

"Of course," Sherlock purred against his belly. Then pulled away to unzip John's jeans with his teeth.

"Oh Christ." John distracted himself from Sherlock's hot breath on his groin as his trousers disappeared by pulling his jumper and t-shirt off completely.

Petting his cock through John's pants, Sherlock shifted on his knees.

"Oh come on. Come on, Sherlock," John said, hips hitching into the man's hold.

"Patient, John." Tugging his pants down slowly before lifting his cock free, Sherlock dropped them around John's ankles. "Leave them there," he ordered, snaking up John's body to kissing him breathless again.

Cock rubbing against Sherlock's trousers, John groaned into the other man's mouth, tearing at Sherlock's shirt until the buttons were open and he could push it off his shoulders. "Jesus bloody hell," John gasped as Sherlock ground his hips down suddenly, biting John's neck.

"Yes..." Sherlock did it again with a low groan, laving his tongue over the spot he'd bitten.

"Get your bloody trousers off!" John gasped before finding an earlobe and sucking it into his mouth. He pushed his hands into Sherlock's spine, arching his neck. Sherlock shimmied on top of him as he pushed his pants and trousers off, mouthing a line down John's chest to his cock.

John hissed as Sherlock's lips closed over the head, hips bucking. Just once before Sherlock's hands splayed over his hips to hold him still. "Oh fuck..." Sucked in air and held it as Sherlock's tongue pressed up against the underside, following the ridge of the head. "I don't know why I thought this was a bad idea... This is—shit!" Sherlock sucked. "Such a brilliant idea! God, Sherlock...!" He dug his hands into Sherlock's hair and was rewarded with a groan. Or maybe that was because—"Shit! You're pulling yourself off, aren't you...!"

Sherlock pulled off with an obscene suck and wiped the back of his hand over his slick mouth. "Inappropriate time to say 'I told you so?'"

John growled.

"Your babbling is insightful."

"Shut it." He flushed. "Get up here. Let me see it."

Sherlock's knee popped as he stood, but he straddled John's lap and nudged his prick up against John's "Ooh...!"

Wrapping a hand around them both, John revelled in Sherlock's breathy groan and mumbled praise. "Fu—uck...!" His cock already slick, he rutted up into his hand and against Sherlock's prick.

Who growled, tightening his thighs around John's hips, wrapping his hand over John's and taking over the rhythm. "As good as you imagined... John...?"

"Only the once..." He curled a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down.

Muttering against his lips, Sherlock thrust his tongue into John's mouth in time with his pulls. "So close, John. So close."

"Me too. Me... Oh God..." Balls drawn tight, he gripped Sherlock's shoulder and thrust up against him once. Twice. Three-squeezed his eyes shut as his orgasm shook through him, groaning. He felt Sherlock shudder against him and then slump on him.

"God that was good." Sherlock exhaled against John's neck.

He shuddered. "Right then."

"Good?"

"Like you need the reassurance," he huffed wryly, lips curling into a smile.

"I always take feedback in sexual matters, John." His voice was soft and gentle.

"It was good, Sherlock," he mumbled.

"Don't fall asleep, John. You need to clean us off."

" _I_ need to? No. No, my price is _you_ clean us since you pushed me into this."

"As I recall, you kissed me first."

"And you subconsciously manipulated me into it. Don't lie," John said casually, cracking an eye to mussed black curls.

Sherlock shifted in his lap, both of them twitching as sensitive flesh rubbed sensitive flesh. "Very well. This time." Pushing himself up, Sherlock padded to the loo.

John watched his arse disappear around the corner.

"Like what you see?" Sherlock called.

"Well enough," he teased back.

Sherlock returned with a damp wash cloth, wiping it over John's chest and groin.

"So does this change everything?" John asked casually.

"Changes nothing," Sherlock said disappearing with the cloth. "It might change the amount of nudity and orgasms. If that's alright with you."

"I suppose I can handle that," John said lightly.

Sherlock's head reappeared from around the corner, grinning broadly. "Excellent."

"So...Scotland?"

Sherlock snickered. "Yes, John. Let it never be said that you are not relentless. I've teamed up with a crew of thieves and fire-bugs."

"What? Really?"

"Don't sound _so_ shocked, John. It's revenge."

"Oh. Revenge. Of course. How again?"

"No need for sarcasm. Their heist interrupted one of my deals, causing me loss. My...client didn't make it. And that was not an acceptable loss."

"So...you're working with them?" He heard Sherlock walk by towards his room, surprisingly unbothered by his own nudity.

"Has sex dulled your mind? Come on, John."

"You're going to double cross them?"

"Nothing so obvious. Set them up. Very good. Now do get dressed."

"We're going out? _Now_?"

"Yes, John."

He groaned.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a blur of homeless curriers, dubious errands, another visit from a smirking DI Moriarty for a drugs bust of all things (Lestrade had already been by to warn Sherlock—not that he kept drugs in the flat—they were downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's plant fertiliser), one and a half narrow escapes from the Yard, two acts of thievery, two shots fired at Sherlock by Sherlock-cum-John's enemies, less than 16 hours of sleep, about four combined miles of sprinting, more than 20 cups of tea, four skipped meals, eight bouts of athletic enthusiastic sex, five counts of breaking the law, and nine taxis.

So when John collapsed on the sofa, Sherlock insinuating himself into John's lap, John didn't think it far removed from the realm of reasonable when he shoved him off.

"John!" Sherlock scolded, indignance and demand all wrapped together.

"You have run me knackered, Sherlock Holmes, and I—oh fuck. What now." They both ignored the knocking until an unfortunately familiar pleasant voice called through.

"Open up, boyos! Scotland Yard!"

"Your turn," John groaned, not opening his eyes.

"Don't worry. He's got nothing. The CCTV were otherwise oriented." He sighed and stood, thumping to the door. "No one's home!"

"Open sesame!"

Sherlock threw open the door "Unless it's pressing, please leave."

"Hullo! So good to see you."

Sherlock was silent.

"Where have you been all day?"

"Please take yourself and the good Detective Moran—still technically on probation, Detective?" He could hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice.

"Where are you running to, Sherlock?"

John cracked his eyes.

"I don't recall."

"Bullshit," he heard Moriarty hiss. "I'll tell him. I'll tell him _all_ abou—Johnny!"

"What's going on?" John asked, feigning dull and obtuse. "Oh god! Have you got a stalker?" He asked, looking around Sherlock's shoulder at the photo Moriarty had proffered.

"Something like that," Sherlock said. "Moriarty was just letting me know." He took the photo and handed it to John, pasting on a smile just as false as Moriarty's.

"Good day then."

"Later then," John said, pushing the door shut as Moriarty left.

"Tedious," Sherlock hissed.

"What now?"

"He's got someone watching. Luckily they did not catch you."

"Sherlock, he has the one photo; he's got to have more."

"No." He shook his head. "It was only the one, and it was blurry." Waved it around. "A mobile camera. And he doesn't know about you because he cut himself off when you came over after he'd just been threatening _me_ to tell all."

"That's good then."

"Yes..." He said slowly, pacing.

"Good." Watched Sherlock a moment. "Well I'm going to have a shower—not an invitation—and kip for a bit." Sherlock hummed, distracted, so John headed upstairs.

Frowning, he wondered how the DI _didn't_ know of his involvement with Sherlock. John was probably the closest person to the man. And John didn't think he was _that_ good at playing hapless flat-mate. He turned the water on, dangling his fingers in the stream until it was suitably warm. Then he stripped, showered, and shuffled back to his room, sighing in the doorway. "Sherlock..."

"You said not an invitation to the shower..." Sherlock rolled over on John's bed, the sheet sliding off his hip revealing bare skin.

"Sherlock... I'm tired. Your stalker stresses me out. I just want a nap."

"Just sleep then. Come on." He held out a hand.

John sighed and flopped down on the bed. He blinked a few times and then was asleep, the personal cuddle toy to the most notorious criminal of England.

* * *

John thought it was a sign that he wondered at his life more often than not, waking to find England's most dangerous mastermind curled around him, face sweet in sleep. Like he was a comfort blanket. He lay still, feigning sleep to enjoy the calm. To think. He was supposed to be in surgery later today. And he had noticed the plain clothes officers following him to work. He'd have to wait to...acquire the scalpel Sherlock wanted. Maybe he'd ask Sherlock to bring him dinner from Angelo's. He smirked. Kiss his cheek when he left. No. It wouldn't embarrass him. Or would it?

He grunted as Sherlock flailed with the ringing of his mobile downstairs, Sherlock's elbow landing in his ribs. The man went flying from John's room starkers. He sighed.

The day had begun.

Working his way through his morning ritual of tea, jam and toast, the newspaper, and the mail, John tuned out Sherlock's ranting on his mobile.

"John, I—"

"Surgery today."

"Bugger." Sherlock frowned in the doorway. "Never mind. Casey will do it."

"Good man."

"I'm going out."

"Fill me in on the plan later," John said, not looking up from the paper. "I'll be back late tomorrow night."

"Ta."

So he had some time before work. He wasted a few minutes on the end of a Graham Norton rerun and then dressed and set out for the shopping. And was tailed the whole way into Tesco. John rolled his eyes to himself. Failures at subtlety. But he packed his cart with bread, a nice cheddar, milk, noodles, a mandarin jam (he was allowed some small pleasures), butter, and orange juice. He was followed all the way home as well, so he hoovered and straightened some of Sherlock's piles, confident the police would take so long to find anything buried in this mess that Sherlock would be long gone by the time they found anything with which to pin him.

He showered after cleaning in the kitchen, dressed, and left for work.

"Hello, John!" Sarah said, brushing by. "We missed you at the party."

"Party?" John blinked.

"Yes, John. The party. Staff party? Told you to invite your friend?" She rolled her eyes fondly.

"Oh! Bugger! Sarah! I'm so sorry! I com _pletely_ forgot! And I wanted to co—"

"John!" She laughed. "Relax. It was just a party."

He nibbled his lip. Sherlock's fault. The man had taken over his life.

"Really, John. It's hardly a big deal. Now go get scrubbed up for that surgery in thirty." She smiled and patted his shoulder. "I'll see you in there."

The surgery went fine, and set the tone for the day. They had his favourite dinner in the café, Doctor Barnes was in a surprisingly good mood, thus making John's next two surgeries pleasant. Despite his hands in peoples' viscera. Best of all, his last surgery was cancelled, so he got to go home early.

Early enough to get pounced on as he came through the door. And when they were both sprawled on the floor with their trousers around their ankles after a messy mutual hand-job, Sherlock asked him to dinner.

"There's a new place down the street. Cajun. It's had good reviews..." Sherlock explained.

John groaned but showered and had to agree with the reviews. He hadn't had anything so spicy since he'd been in the middle east. Well. Except for the time Sherlock switched labels on the spices and he accidentally poured chili powder in his coffee. "Sherlock. I was thinki—" He broke off as Sherlock was on his feet and sprinting out of sight. "Wha...what the fuck!" John stared at their food, good mood spoiled, appetite gone. Glowering, he snagged the waitress, boxed up their food, and trudged home to an empty flat. So empty that he went straight to bed.

Startled awake by Sherlock's banging around downstairs, John snarled at his ceiling. So not only was he left again, but now Sherlock was making a racket on his sleep-in day. Obviously, it was time for something drastic. John groaned out of bed and paused in the bathroom to give his teeth a quick brush, then headed downstairs, plan in action. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Is that you? Sher—" He cut himself off as he found Sherlock in the kitchen. "You left me," he accused, his voice wavering.

"John!" Sherlock blurted, eyes going wide as he caught sight of John. "John!" Surprise was painted over his features like a comical mask.

"You left me!" He said again instead of laughing, letting his shoulder jerk with a sob as he glared and turned away, a tear dripping down his cheek.

"Oh God," Sherlock breathed, clearly horrified. "John, I didn't me—"

"You said you wouldn't leave me behind again!"

"John! John, please..." he said, approaching him hesitantly, arms outstretched in awkward supplication. "I didn't mean it. Oh God. Don't...just...John, can you stop crying. It's putting me off... I need-no! No stop! Don't cry _harder_! It's not that big—oh fuck! I— _John_! Sto—I'll never leave you behind again! I promise!" Sherlock finally blurted.

"Really...?" he asked in a small voice.

"I promise," Sherlock assured.

John could feel the hand hovering over his shoulder. Smirking, he spun round and flicked the tears away. "Good." And wished had had a camera to savour the utterly gobsmacked look on his flatmate's face.

"John Watson," he breathed. "You..."

"Used to get me out of trouble with Harry and my mum all the time. Worked like a charm."

"Yes, yes of course..." Sherlock stared at him with something akin to awe. Reaching out, Sherlock touched the tear tracks. "My God that's amazing."

It was just a small flush of pride, really, that he managed to fool Sherlock Holmes. "Remember you promised."

"Of course."

John crossed his arms. "Why did you run off anyway?"

Sherlock finally dropped his eyes and lost his rapt expression for something more sheepish. "I spotted two of my separate...business partners together. They should never have been together, seeing as I was playing one off the other, and I needed to hear what they were talking about."

Rolling his eyes, John sighed. "Of course you did. But no call? No text?"

"Can you do that again?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Cry on command! Can you do that again?"

"Of course I can. What are you on about, Sherlock."

"Brilliant! I will be needing you for more than your firearm, John!"

He huffed, amused. "Excellent..."

"Why haven't you mentioned this kill earlier, John!" Sherlock shouted as he darted into his room after planting a kiss on John's lips.

"I...oh..." He frowned. "Sorry...? I didn't think it relevant."

"Relevant? It's _crucial_!"

"To what?"

"My plan!" Sherlock stuck his head out, grin crazed. "John, will you be my hostage?"

"That's the craziest marriage proposal I've ever heard..."

"Will you be my hostage!"

"I don't—"

"Thank you. Time to plan!"

It turned out that Sherlock and the thieves were going to steal the Rillaton gold cup, the Snettisham Hoard, the silver tigress of the Hoxne Hoard, and the Lewis Chessmen from the British Museum. The fire-bugs were going to set fire to a couple office buldings as a distraction. As well as the grounds outside the museum. Then when it looked like Sherlock was going to disappear, the thieves were going to hold John hostage.

"Does this change everything?" he asked casually.

"John, don't be mundane. Everything's already changed." He scowled and went back to explaining. The DI would be left facing a hostage situation, John being 'kidnapped' because he was Sherlock's flatmate. John _really_ being 'kidnapped' because the thieves thought he was Sherlock's partner. Which he was. The DI would rescue John,s et him free because he had nothing to hold him on, and Sherlock would be in their flat 'the whole time,' worrying over John because of the ransom note.

John heard most of that. But his mind was still spinning over the fact that 'everything's already changed.'

Sherlock exited the bedroom, looked at John, smirked and shook his head. "I'm sorry, John. I misread your anxiety. Of course things changed after we had sex. We slept together, did we not?"

"Wha..."

"In the capacity that we shared a bed for purposes _not_ sexual intercourse." His smile softened and he stepped in front of John, toe to toe. "I quite enjoy your company, in case you hadn't understood that. I believe you astute enough to have picked up on it. You did, didn't you?"

John flushed lightly, looking off to the side.

"John."

"You're...not...the easiest person to read, Sherlock." He blinked as Sherlock tilted his chin up, eyes widening when a sweet kiss was pressed to his lips.

"Then I've been remiss," Sherlock fairly purred as he pulled back. "John," he said, suddenly serious. "If I needed to leave the country, would you come with me?"

"Fleeing the country?"

"Would you?"

"I'm sure you could convince me." Sherlock's grin was perfect. John beamed back. "Wait, are you planning on fleeing the country?"

"John. I am _always_ prepared to flee the country. In facet..." Sherlock spun and vanished into his room. John was beginning to think that was where Sherlock kept absolutely everything, and it was a bit like Mary Poppin's bag in there. "I've a gift for you," he said when he returned.

John accepted the small package.

"Open it," Sherlock said impatiently.

John chuckled and ripped the paper off. "A wallet?"

" _Open_ it!"

"Sherlock, a fake ID?"

" _American_ Ids. A driving license, credit card—not that you'd ever use it. We'd use cash. Harder to trace. Which you've plenty of in there."

"Oh my God! Where did you get this?" He pulled the license out—Arizona.

"A friend of mine in the U.S. made and procured them for me. Forger. Don't worry. He's the best. Has ties to the FBI so we're mostly safe, as long as we don't try our craft over there. He'll warn us if we appear on their radar though."

Staring at the ID, John shook his head. Didn't stop it from reeling. "I've got an alias. I'm officially a criminal."

Sherlock grinned at him widely. "Yes! And the Yard just doesn't know it yet! It's brilliant!"

"David DelaTorre? Who are you?"

"Victor Moreau, New York."

John shook his head. "Incredible... Well. Thanks, I guess?"

"Memorise that info. Set a pin for your card. You may be needing the information soon."

"That's a frightening thought..."

"You'll leave with me?" Sherlock asked almost earnestly. "When the time comes?"

He'd already said yes, but this was a promise. "You...want me to?"

"Yes, John. I do."

Smirking at Sherlock's word choice, John nodded once. "Then yes. _I_ do."

"Perfect," Sherlock purred. "Our plans—"

"Your pans."

"—begin next week."

* * *

As John sat in captivity, he prayed Sherlock wouldn't leave him behind. He thought he'd made a good show of it: remaining strong but crying silent tears. Crying harder when they threatened him. Shaking when they got close. Thinking of his rucksack hidden back at home, he tallied the items again, thinking of anything he forgot. He had the wallet (Information memorised)—had added cash withdrawn from his own accounts. Hopefully that wasn't too suspicious. He'd done it subtly, small bits withdrawn over the time between Sherlock told him and when their plans went into effect. He had a change of clothes, his medals, guns, and a few other sentimental items (photos). Sherlock said no phones and no computers. They could get new, so John also had two flash drives with photos, files, and other odds-and-ends he'd rather not lose.

Ah, there we were. The thieves scattered as the Yard poured in. they cut his bonds and helped him stand when John made himself wobble. "Please," he whimpered, tears dripping down his cheeks. "Just take me home."

Moriarty snarled, but he took John home personally.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed with well-feigned surprise. "Where have you been?"

He hunched his shoulders and opened his mouth, but the DI got there first.

"He was kidnapped. Because of you!"

"Me?" Sherlock snorted, but moved towards John.

"Wait... Sherlock?" John put a hurt confused expression on his face. "What is he talking about?"

Sherlock blinked and then his face shut down. "I've not a clue."

"John Watson, your flatmate is a criminal! And those men thought that you were involved with him."

John snorted. "A criminal?"

"Clearly," Sherlock drawled, "the fires have gotten to our DI."

"Oh?"

Before Moriarty could continue, Sherlock leaned in and sniffed. "Smoke. And petrol. Fire. Obviously planned. It was on the news twitter online that there were fires. Smoke must have addled your mind."

John hid his smile.

"And how do I know you didn't set the fires?"

Sherlock snorted. "Because I'm an upstanding citizen of our fine London. I've been here all day. Ask my land lady."

"I will. You don't fool me. I'll discover the truth, Sherlock Holmes. You know I always do," Moriarty crooned.

"Now if you're finished harassing me, I'd like to see to my flatmate. John, are you alright?"

"I'm...fine. I'm fine..." But he wrapped his arms around his middle and looked at his feet.

"We'll need to take your statement, John. Would you like to do that now, or would you prefer later? I can send one of my officers over."

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "The poor man's shocked. Send Lestrade later."

DI Moriarty glared at Sherlock but nodded. "Take care of yourself, Johnny. And do beware of your flatmate. He's not who he see—"  
"Ye, yes. Ridiculous cryptic warnings aside, good _day_ , Moriarty." Sherlock turned John and kicked the door shut with a heel. When the last footsteps faded and the outside door slammed shut, Sherlock stepped back and patted John down. "You _are_ alright?"

"What? Oh. Of course. They threatened a lot and hardly touched me. They hit like children."

Sherlock chuckled. "You are an excellent actor."

"Why thank you," John replied, pleased. "What now?"

"Now the police receive an anonymous tip about some suspicious persons seen entering a warehouse."

John grinned and rolled his eyes. "So the double-crossers get crossed then?"

Whirling away, Sherlock grabbed a portfolio case and lifted out some of the gold and silver artefacts from the museum. "Now I sell these."

John whistled lowly. "Wow. Smaller than I thought. That's the cup, right?"

"Yes. It is. Want to have sex?"

"Yes please."

* * *

Four days later Sherlock burst into the flat. "John! Get your rucksack!"

"We're leaving?" John yelped, hoisting the towel around his hips.

"Yes! We—oh for God's sake! Get dressed! We've about an hour and a half before Moriarty will figure it and traffic is dreadful!"

"Traffic?"

"John! Don't choose now of all times to be stupid! We're leaving! Get! Dressed!"

John swore, flying to his room for clothes before meeting Sherlock in the living room. "Now?"

Sherlock's eyes were wild. "Now, John!"

Looking around one last time, John dashed to the kitchen and grabbed his RAMC mug and tea strainer (gift from his mum) and stuffed them in his pack.

"You are painfully English, now come _on_ , John!"

Then they ran. By taxi and tube, they made it to the airport, breathless, laughing.

"This way!" Sherlock jerked his wrist.

"Private sector?"

"Yes!"

"Sherlock... Sherlock, _you're_ not flying, are you?"

Grinning, Sherlock dragged him along. "Of course. I bought the plane!"

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, John. I'm licensed."

"This one forged by your American friend too?" His voice jumped an octave. He didn't care.

"No, I earned this one." They slowed to a walk as they made the hangar. "Took for bloody ever."

"Ah, there you are sir," a man walked towards them. "She's all ready to go."

"Excellent. John, hold my Strad."

Finding his arms full of violin and rucksack, John sighed and followed Sherlock aboard. Finding a seat to set his and Sherlock's things on, John joined Sherlock in the cockpit. "You're sure you know what you're doing?"

"John," Sherlock tutted, flicking switches and pressing buttons. "Have some faith. I know exactly what I'm doing. Now sit down and strap in."

John swallowed and threw himself into the chair and put on the headphones.

"Stop. Worrying." Sherlock fired up the engines and taxied out to the runway. "Ah-ha! There they are."

"What?"

"Sirens. The police. Behind us."

John looked back, gripping the chair as they picked up speed. "Shit."

"We're fine. We'll make it," Sherlock said calmly.

"Sherlock... They're gaining on us. Sherlock! They're gaining! We're not—"

"John. Kindly _shut. Up_."

The plane hopped once and then they were rising up into the air and Sherlock was laughing and cheering. John let the air out slowly through his teeth, hands still clenched on the seat.

"Relax, John."

"We're in the air."

"Yes."

"We're flying."

"Yes, John," Sherlock drawled, voice laced with amusement. "Any other obvious questions you need answering?"

"No. No, I think I'm good."

"We're free!"

Looking at him quickly, John's second glance lasted longer and he actually saw Sherlock's grin. "Uh. We are. Um. Where are we going?"

"My island."

"Your island. Sherlock Holmes' island."

"Of course not, John. Victor Moreau's island."

"Which is where?" John chanced a glance out the window.

"The Caribbean."

"Oh. Of course. That's a long flight."

"Yes. Go and sleep if you want. The plan as food and water in the back." Sherlock's eyes were on the controls, but he spared a fond glance for John. "I didn't know you had a fear of flying."

"I don't," John said quickly.

Sherlock arched a brow at him.

"Only in small planes!"

Sherlock looked back to his controls. "Go sleep, John. You're tired. I'll wake you when we're there."

John nodded and stood, making his way to the rear, stretching out on one of the padded benches, falling asleep.

* * *

"John. John, we're here." Sherlock's voice was warm by his ear. "John, get up."

Blinking and stretching his arms up, John sat. "I slept the whole way."

"You were exhausted..."

Sherlock looked fairly rumpled himself, hair wild and sleeves rolled to his elbows. His buttons were undone halfway down his chest. "Oh. Hello."

Chuckling, his flatmate stood and offered a hand.

"So," John began, taking it. "Ooh... Not good for the back. Your island?"

"Yes. Also, my plane, my airstrip, my mansion, and beyond that, my private bay with my yacht. All of which, is now yours as well. Should you want, we could take our identities up to New York and get married so it's official."

John blinked. "What?"

"Married. Interested?"

"Can't say that's what I was expecting when I got up this morning..." John murmured as Sherlock lead him off the plane. "How about you let me get used to being formerly John Watson, half of England's Most Wanted, now Mr. David DelaTorre, before I'm Mr. Moreau?"

Sherlock grinned. "Let me show you the house. There's a hot tub the size of your old room and a patio with a diving board.

"And you'll never believe who our neighbours are! Johnny Depp and Errol Flynn. Baron Rothschild is nearby as well..."

John laughed and followed his lover into a new life.


End file.
